


Wrong Train To The Right Destination

by flawedamythyst



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint really loves purple, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Secrets, Soulmates Make You see In Colour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22954321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Bucky and Clint have lots in common, not least that they can both see colour but don't have a soulmate.(Five times a secret was revealed, and one time they realised something blatantly obvious.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 100
Kudos: 760
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	Wrong Train To The Right Destination

**Author's Note:**

> Huge love to CB and Nny for betaing and to CB for the title.
> 
> Written for my Winterhawk Bingo square of 'soulmates'.

“You know, you sure wear a lot of purple for a guy without a soulmate,” said Tony, eyeing Clint’s shirt.

Clint didn’t freeze up, because you didn’t make it to being a Level Eight SHIELD agent if being caught out made you react, but a cold weight sank into his stomach as he kept pouring his coffee. “Do I?” he asked, keeping his voice casual. “Guess I like that shade of grey.”

Steve had turned towards him and was eyeing Clint’s shirt as well and, shit, maybe Clint should have stopped himself from buying a fifth purple t-shirt and gone for one of the eye-searingly orange or neon green ones that you usually saw unbonded people wearing. He’d just got lulled into a false sense of security over the years, because hardly anyone at SHIELD was bonded, and so no one was going to notice that Clint had a favourite colour when he wasn’t even meant to be able to see colours.

“That mug’s purple as well,” said Steve, thoughtfully. “You always pick that one.”

“It’s the biggest,” said Clint, which wasn’t true at all, they were all the same size.

They both kept staring at him and, shit, now Natasha was glancing over from where she was perched on the common room sofa. She couldn’t see colours, but if she had the slightest suspicion that there was something weird going on, she’d keep watching Clint until she was able to definitively prove whether or not he could see colours. That was just how she worked; she liked to be sure that she knew everyone’s secrets.

"Sure," said Tony, "that was convincing. You got something you want to tell the class, Legolas?"

Everyone's eyes were on Clint. He thought about bluffing it out, and then about the fact that these people weren’t just his friends, they were the closest thing to family he’d had since Barney stabbed him in the back both literally and figuratively. If he really thought about it, he didn't have a good reason to keep this a secret from them, other than force of habit.

“The first time I recognised purple it was your sneakers,” said Steve thoughtfully, and Clint gave up.

“Okay, you got me,” he said, leaning back against the kitchen cabinets and cradling his coffee in his hands. “I can see colour.”

There was a surprised pause, even though that had been what they were pushing for. Clint figured they probably weren't expecting him to come out with it so easily, and then Natasha got up and stalked over and he braced himself. 

“You don’t have a soulmate,” she said, crossing her arms in the doorway. It wasn't a question, because she probably knew where he’d been and what he'd been doing for every moment of the last five years, and she knew there was no space for him to have a secret boyfriend. 

Clint half-shrugged. “Nope. Well, I do somewhere, sure, but I haven’t seen him since we, you know…” he just gestured vaguely with his hand rather than use any of the terms that got used for the moment you first touched your soulmate and colours burst into life around you.

“You bonded with someone and then, what? You just walked away?” asked Steve, sounding horrified and, yep, Tony was drifting closer to him, resting a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. Of course those two didn’t get why you might just not bother, not when one of them had got Captain America as a soulmate, and the other got a genius billionaire. Whoever the guy was that Clint had bonded with had just got some thieving kid. No wonder he’d blanked him without saying a word.

“He walked away,” corrected Clint, then shrugged. “Probably for the best. He was a grown man and I was, like, eight. That’s creepy no matter which way you spin it.”

The staring was going to stop any moment now, he was sure of it.

“You’ve been able to see colours since you were eight?” said Natasha, and there was the low note of anger in her voice that meant she wasn’t just pissed, she was hurt.

Fuck, he really shouldn't have kept this a secret from her, not after the first year or two.

“Yeah,” said Clint, “and this is the first time I’ve told anyone. I didn’t even tell Barney, and back then he was the only person I had.”

“What exactly happened?” asked Bruce. Damn, Clint hadn’t even realised he was here, listening in. He guessed he should be grateful Thor was off on Asgard and he could keep this to just these guys, for now.

Clint rubbed a hand over his face. It was too damn early to be dragging up this ancient crap, but apparently that was just what was happening. He’d tell them all, answer as many questions as he could stand, then go hide in the range for a bit. He could hide down there until he’d pushed it all back down and could go back to pretending he was perfectly happy to be able to see colours without having to worry about some old dude soulmate.

“It was just after we ran away from the foster home,” he said, staring down at his mug. “Before we made it to the circus. We were in Chicago, at the train station. Barney was picking pockets, and I was trying to as well but I was new to it and looking for an easy mark. There was this guy just standing there, like he was a statue or something, and I could see he had a bag at his feet, just lying there where anyone could snag it and run off, and I figured it was easier than going into a pocket for a wallet.”

“Jesus, Clint,” said Bruce softly, and Clint felt his shoulders hunch over, because maybe he hadn’t been intending to let these guys know just how fucked up his childhood had been, but there was no going back now.

“We were hungry, and we didn’t have anywhere to sleep,” he said defensively. “Barney was so sure we’d wind up on our feet, but we had jack shit just then.”

“Go on,” said Steve softly, and there was something like understanding in his face. Clint always forgot that for all that Steve felt like a golden age hero, he’d grown up poor.

Clint shrugged. “I went for the bag, crossing behind him and grabbing it without stopping, and I figured he was so out of it – seriously, he was just staring at the wall, hands behind his back - that he’d never even notice until he went to pick it up. Except he noticed immediately and grabbed my wrist and then…” he gestured again, fingers splayed, to demonstrate the way the whole station had just lit up for him, colours bursting into life from every angle. “I guess it startled him – it sure as hell startled me. I fell down and he let go, then just stared at me until another couple of guys came up, said something to him in another language, and he grabbed his bag and followed them off to a platform. Never even looked back.”

He could still remember how it had felt, being huddled on the ground, his wrist aching from how hard the guy had grabbed it, overwhelmed by all the colours and watching his soulmate stride off like he was nothing.

“No wonder you didn’t tell anyone,” said Natasha, and Clint found a smile for her, because he’d known she’d understand. If he’d tried to convince Barney that it had really happened, he'd have thought Clint was just lying to cover that he hadn’t managed to steal anything. What else could he have done? Spent his life telling people he could see colours and then having to field all the inevitable questions? No way.

Besides, he had ended up stealing something that day, even if it hadn't been money or food, or anything else he could share with Barney. There had been a bookshop in the station, so he'd taken a colours book, one of the ones they made for newly bonded people to be able to learn the difference between blue and green. He’d kept it safe and hidden for years, even after he hadn’t needed it any more. He had a feeling it had still been stuffed under his mattress when Barney and Trick had made sure he knew he wasn’t ever welcome back at the circus. He wondered if anyone had ever found it and what they'd thought of it.

“And you never made any effort to find him?” asked Tony.

“How?” returned Clint. “He was just some guy, I don’t know what language his friends spoke to him, if he spoke English or was a tourist. I don’t even know that I’d recognise him if I passed him in the street.”

He remembered long dark hair and light eyes, but that had been before he’d known how to categorise eye colours and he couldn’t now remember if the lightness had been blue or green or some combination. Any time he tried to put together what the guy's face might have looked like, all he remembered was the sharp pain of having his wrist grabbed, and then the guy’s back as he walked away.

He’d been wearing jeans and a black leather jacket. It wasn’t exactly distinctive.

“Besides,” he added, “That was thirty years ago. He’d be well over fifty, maybe even over sixty. Maybe less creepy than when I was eight, but still not really something I’m looking for, you know?”

Tony worked an eyebrow at him. "You're complaining about soulmate age differences to me? The guy bonded with an actual senior citizen?"

It wasn't the same thing at all, and Tony knew it. Clint just shook his head and downed the last of his coffee. "Doesn't matter, water under the bridge," he said. "Just means I get to know purple is the best colour without having to worry about a soulmate cramping my style." He put his mug in the sink. "I'm going to the range."

He escaped the room, leaving them to talk it out and, hopefully, come to the same conclusion he'd been telling himself for years. He'd never known the guy, so it didn't matter that he wasn't ever going to see him again.

****

He’d been worried that they’d all push and poke at it, but after that one conversation, it never really came up again. A couple of weeks later, Tony casually mentioned that Chicago Union Station hadn’t kept any CCTV from further than a few years ago and nothing had been digitised back then so he couldn’t search any records from when Clint had been eight. When Christmas swung around, a couple of the gifts he got were purple, including the scarf from Natasha, which meant she’d asked someone who could see colours to help her pick it out. In the field, Steve started using colours to identify things when discussing moves with Clint.

And that was it. Clint was able to carry on his strict policy of pretending he’d just been born able to see colours, and shelving any feelings he might have about the shitty hand life had dealt him on the soulmate side. It wasn’t like he wanted what Steve and Tony had, anyway, having to spend all that time with someone else when he had enough going on with training, SHIELD, Avengers missions and hanging out with Natasha and the others. When would he even have time to fit a soulmate in? Nah, he was better off alone.

A few years passed. Tony and Steve argued and made up and argued again. Bruce decided being on the team was too much and disappeared for parts unknown, leaving a telephone number they were only meant to use for emergencies, although Clint knew Tony called him at least once a week to complain about some science problem. Steve made friends with a guy in DC who had mechanical wings and the same tendency to rush into danger that the rest of them shared, and brought him home to join the team. SHIELD turned out to be Hydra and went up in a ball of flames. Steve’s dead best friend turned out to be alive, and Steve and Sam spent six months hunting him around the globe before bringing him home as well, and Clint started to wonder how many more best friends Steve would be bringing back to become Avengers.

Not that Bucky really seemed to want to be part of the team. He mostly stuck to the spare room in Steve and Tony's apartment, occasionally turning up at movie nights in a hoodie and a scowl and escaping the moment the credits rolled. The only other time Clint really saw him was the middle of the night, when he’d given up on sleeping after one too many nightmares and figured a big pot of coffee and a couple of hours at the range would work just as well.

Bucky was often in there already, slumped over a mug of cocoa and looking heartbreakingly sad, although he wiped that off his face and replaced it with a scowl as soon as he realised he wasn’t alone. He never stuck around for long once Clint showed up, anyway.

“You don’t need to go running off,” said Clint, the fifth or sixth time it happened. “I’m gonna be gone again as soon as the coffee’s made.”

Bucky eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not going back to bed after drinking that much coffee.”

“Nope,” said Clint. “I’m going to the range.”

Bucky grunted and glared down at his cocoa. 

“Haven’t seen you in there yet,” added Clint, as casually as he could. “You know it’s got a whole range of guns, even some super old rifles, right?”

Bucky grunted again, and Clint thought that would be the only response he got, but after nearly a minute of silence, Bucky gritted out, “Not real keen on being a sharpshooter any more.”

Clint glanced at him, but he’d ducked his head so his hair covered his expression. “Fair enough,” he said, because he’d definitely had a few moments after Loki when he’d wanted to stop being a weapon. “You don’t need to be anything you don’t want to be any more. You know we’ll all have your back against anyone who tries to force you.”

Bucky gave him a tiny nod and Clint left it at that, heading out to the range before he made the guy feel too uncomfortable.

The next movie night, Bucky slunk in with his hands deep in his pockets. He eyed the space that Steve always made sure he and Tony left at the end of their couch, then came over and sat next to Clint instead.

The look Steve gave him was almost comically betrayed, and Bucky rolled his eyes at him. “I ain’t really interested in listening to you and Stark make out for a whole movie, Stevie.”

“Hey,” said Tony, “We only do that if it’s a boring movie. Or I’ve seen it before. Or Steve’s looking particularly hot. Or-”

“Okay, thanks Tony, I think you’ve proved his point,” said Steve.

They started the movie going, but Clint felt weirdly aware of Bucky next to him, even with half a foot between them on the couch. Once he’d settled into place, he didn’t move a whole lot, but somehow Clint’s mind pointed out every tiny shift of his hand or readjustment of his feet.

Man, he hoped like hell that wasn’t a sign that he saw Bucky as an active threat, because that seemed kinda harsh on the guy, given he clearly wanted nothing more than to just spend his time forgetting all about what Hydra had done to him.

They paused the movie halfway and Clint got up to grab himself another coffee. “Want a top up?” he asked Bucky, the same as he would whoever he ended up sat next to and not at all because it felt like Bucky could do with a few more people being nice to him.

Bucky nodded and Clint glanced at the clutter of mugs, cup and glasses that a movie night always ended scattering across the coffee table. “Which one’s yours?” he asked, expecting Bucky to point it out.

Instead, Bucky frowned at the table and said, “The grass-coloured one.”

Clint stared at him. “Wait, you can see colours?”

The usual hubbub of people sorting out drinks and snacks cut off and everyone turned to look at Bucky, who hunched under the scrutiny. “Guess so,” he gritted out.

“Bucky,” said Steve emotionally, which answered Clint’s half-thought out question about whether or not he’d been able to before the War. “What- Why didn’t you say? How long for?”

Bucky looked even more uncomfortable. “I don’t know,” he said. “Just can. Some time in the last couple of decades, I guess, but don’t remember exactly. Musta been on a mission that hasn’t come back yet.”

The full horror of that took a while to really sink in. Bucky must have met -must have _touched_ \- his soulmate on a mission for Hydra. A mission where he’d have just been pointed at a target to kill, then picked up after and had his mind wiped so thoroughly he didn’t remember it now.

Clint couldn’t imagine Bucky had touched many people as the Winter Soldier who hadn’t been either targets or Hydra agents. Fuck, the chances that Bucky had killed his own soulmate suddenly looked horribly high. 

From the looks around the room, everyone else was figuring that out as well. Bucky glared at them all, but even Clint could tell he was covering up deep misery with a thin layer of anger.

Time for a distraction. “Cocoa, right?” he said, picking up the green mug. “Oh, and grass colour is green. You got a colours book?”

Bucky shook his head. “Been distracted by other things.”

“You can borrow mine,” said Steve. “It’s got loads of different shades in it.”

“Thanks,” said Bucky, stiffly, and Clint took the chance to disappear to the kitchen. Thinking about Bucky’s tragic soulmate story was making him think of his own and, damnit, he kept that shit locked up where he couldn’t think about it for a reason.

****

Most of the team were just as good at ignoring Bucky’s tragic soulmate story as they were about ignoring Clint’s, but Steve, of course, was the exception. Still, his wide-eyed and sorrowful look over Bucky having possibly murdered his soulmate was pretty interchangeable with his wide-eyed and sorrowful looks over Bucky having been tortured for decades, and not remembering his family so well, and any of the other dozens of heartbreaking things from Bucky’s past. It seemed like Bucky was finding it easy enough to ignore.

He did start spending more time in the communal areas as time passed, but Clint wasn’t sure if that was because he wanted to make friends or just avoid Steve’s sad looks. Or it could be the way Tony and Steve got all wrapped up in each other when they weren’t arguing. Clint could imagine that was exhausting to spend nearly all day every day around.

As the other guy who was mostly hanging around the communal areas, that meant Clint and Bucky hung out more by default, and then Clint started actually making an effort to be around when Bucky was. It wasn’t just that Bucky was surprisingly fun to be around, with a dry sense of humour that seemed to be coming out more and more, or that Clint was enjoying watching him slowly work out more and more of who he was, or even that he was smoking hot and Clint like the excuse to enjoy the view. 

Until they’d had a couple of quiet talks in the middle of the night when neither of them could sleep, Clint hadn’t realised how much they had in common. Snipers was the obvious one. It didn’t come up much when Bucky was still avoiding the range, but it gave them the same way of looking at the world from a distance, finding high spots and the best vantage points. Then there was the run in with brainwashing that they both could have done without, the fact that they could both see colours but that they had never had a soulmate, had a best friend that they were maybe a little codependent with... the list went on. Hell, by the time Clint found out that Bucky’s father had been a bit too fond of drinking, just like Clint’s had been, he wasn’t even surprised by any of it any more.

“He ever hit you?” asked Clint, and it was another of their late night talks, cosied up on the sofa with the lights down dim, drinking cocoa that Bucky had made. Clint had even stopped trying to talk Bucky into making coffee for him instead.

Bucky stared down at the carpet, then lifted one shoulder. “If he did, not more’n a couple of times,” he said. “Mainly I remember him shouting at Mom, then there being no money for food or rent or whatever the next day.”

Clint nodded, because he remembered that as well, the way there just never seemed to be any money because it had all gone to the local bar or the liquor store. “Mine fucked up my hearing,” he said, putting the words out there as casually as he could, as if he wasn’t letting Bucky into one of his most-guarded secrets. Mostly, he let people think that he’d been born with shitty hearing, or that it had got fucked up on a mission. 

Bucky took a breath, but didn’t say anything for a moment. Clint stared at his cocoa and wondered why the hell he’d thought this guy he’d known for only a few months was a safe person to let so far in.

When Bucky did respond, it was to wrap his arm around Clint’s shoulders and pull him into a sideways hug. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

For some reason, the quiet, confident way he said that made tears spring to Clint’s eyes and, shit, he hadn’t cried over his dad since before he’d driven into that tree. “Yeah,” he agreed, and it came out wetter than he’d meant. Fuck, these late night confessions were really doing a number on his ability to repress his emotions.

Bucky set his cocoa down, took Clint’s gently from his hands to put down as well, then pulled him into a proper hug. “You deserved better,” he said softly as Clint clung on, pressing his face into Bucky’s shoulder and telling himself that the wave of emotion was just a late reaction to nearly dying on the last mission. The one that had been a good couple of weeks ago.

Bucky’s hand smoothed over his back and Clint drew in a lungful of air that smelled like Bucky, and gave in to admitting that this was more than a delayed reaction, that he'd let his walls down with Bucky in a way that opened him up to this kind of emotional torrent.

“Sorry,” he muttered, fisting his hands in Bucky’s shirt. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t get like this. Fuck.” 

Shit, there was no way Bucky had missed how close he was to just sobbing his lungs out.

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Bucky. “Whatever you need.”

Clint nodded against his shoulder and fought to get control of himself, blinking back tears before they could fall. Once he felt mostly composed, he pulled back, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Bucky’s body behind.

“Sorry,” he offered again, twisting his mouth into an apologetic smile. “Guess it’s a sign I need more sleep.”

“Don’t apologise for reacting to bad shit other people have done to you,” said Bucky. “At least that’s what my therapist says.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Your therapist calls it ‘bad shit’?”

Bucky shrugged. “Something like that.” He’d let Clint pull away, but his arms were still around Clint and he was close enough for Clint to see the concern in his eyes as he gave Clint an intent look. Clint fought the instinct to sway in towards him because there was no sense in letting the hour and the dim light override his better instincts. Bucky was a friend, and he deserved better than being clumily hit on by a disaster who had just nearly cried all over him.

Bucky moved his hand to Clint’s cheek, stroking his thumb over it, still staring at Clint as if he could see into his soul. “She also says that letting yourself feel the bad shit doesn’t mean you should cut yourself off from the good shit happening right now,” he said softly. “Clint, you’re one of the best things that’s happened to me. Can I-?” He hesitated, some of his confidence leaching away.

Clint couldn’t stand to see that. Bucky was handsome and kind and so damn strong for pulling himself back together the way he had been. He shouldn’t ever doubt himself. “Yeah?” he prompted, in a low voice.

Bucky took a deep breath. “Can I kiss you?”

Clint hadn’t expected that, but there was only one answer he could give. “Yes, of course. Please.”

They were so close together that Bucky barely had to lean at all to press his lips against Clint’s. It was soft, almost delicate to start with, but Clint wasn’t interested in anything tentative, not with Bucky. He pressed in closer, tracing his tongue along the seam of Bucky’s lips until he opened them, then deepening the kiss until they were both breathless and had to pull apart.

“I’ve been wanting to do that a while,” said Bucky softly, hand curved around Clint’s neck.

“You shoulda done it earlier, then,” said Clint.

Bucky shrugged awkwardly. “Steve said that I should, that you like men and he thought you’d want me to, but…” He shrugged again, and Clint squeezed his shoulder, because he hated seeing him look so uncertain. “I know you’ve got a soulmate out there.”

Clint snorted. “You don’t ever need to worry about him,” he said. “I don’t expect to ever see him again.” He leaned in and kissed Bucky softly, letting himself enjoy how easy it felt. “He doesn’t matter, not when there’s someone in front of me I actually know.”

Bucky’s smile spread slowly across his face and he kissed Clint again. “Same as mine, then,” he said, and Clint didn’t bother finding a response, not when he could just keep kissing Bucky instead.

****

If Clint had thought kissing Bucky was easy, that was nothing on how easy it was to be in a relationship with him. Most of the stuff they already did together adapted itself easily enough to turn into dates. All that really changed was that Clint got to touch Bucky whenever he wanted instead of having to repress it: running his hands over Bucky’s shoulders and back when he spotted the impressive flex of his muscles in the gym, instigating long make-out sessions whenever a movie got boring, kissing the taste of cocoa out of Bucky’s mouth and then taking him back to his bedroom, because if neither of them could sleep they might as well find something else to do.

Bucky seemed to be finding it just as easy, if the way he smiled at Clint was anything to go by, or the way he was finally relaxing into the routine of the Tower as long as it meant having Clint with him.

“Okay, I am headed to the range,” said Clint after lunch one day, standing up to put his plate in the dishwasher. “Want to meet for a movie later?”

Bucky stayed still for a long moment, then lifted his head and met Clint’s eyes with a nervous look. “Do you mind if I come with you?”

Clint just stared at him. “To the range?” he asked. “Uh, sure, of course. I thought-”

Bucky shook his head, cutting off Clint’s words. “I can’t go running scared forever,” he said in a low voice that made Clint drop what he’d been about to say entirely.

“C’mon then, old man, you can show me how the old timey weapons work,” he said cheerfully. “I think Tony’s got a trebuchet somewhere.”

Bucky gave him an incredulous look. “Seriously?” he asked. “Clint, you use a _bow and arrow_ , what the hell makes you think I’m the old timey guy here?”

“A bow’s not old timey, it’s a _classic_ ,” said Clint, and happily let the bickering continue as they headed down to the range, because as long as Bucky was trying to explain why a paleolithic weapon couldn’t be a classic (and failing, because a bow was the only weapon that came with a sense of style, of course it was a classic) he wasn’t getting tense about picking up a gun again.

Once they got to the range, Bucky did tense up again, but Clint didn’t comment on it. He just got his bow out, set himself up with a lane and started shooting, leaving Bucky to work through his demons without someone watching. It was only about ten minutes later that Bucky came to the lane next to him, holding a rifle in his hands and staring down at the target, but it took him a lot longer before he took his first shot.

It was a bullseye, of course.

“Nice shot,” said Clint, as casually as he could.

Bucky let out a grunt and shot again, three times in quick succession. All the bullets slammed into the same point, in the exact centre of the target, so that it looked as if he’d only shot once. Clint couldn’t keep in a low whistle of appreciation.

“Do the targets move further back at all?” asked Bucky.

“Oh yeah,” said Clint, “they do all sorts, let me show you.”

By the time they’d finished running through the wide range of options that Tony had set up in the range, an hour had passed and Bucky was relaxed and happy, seemingly having just as good a time as Clint was. Well, maybe not quite as much, because Clint was proving himself just enough of a better shot to be able to be smug about it.

“Best marksman in the world,” he crowed, swinging his hips in a victory dance.

“Jesus,” muttered Bucky, then a moment later he had his hands on Clint’s hips and was pulling him in for a kiss that Clint happily gave in to. “Enough shooting, let’s go upstairs,” Bucky muttered against Clint’s lips, and Clint was more than happy to agree.

Nearly an hour later, they were lazing on Clint’s bed, naked and coated with cooling sweat. Clint had his eyes half-closed as he contemplated whether or not there was time before dinner for a nap. Bucky was curled up against him, one hand gently stroking over Clint’s chest, down to his stomach where the sheet was, then back up again.

The slow rhythmic motion was enough to tip Clint into the ‘definitely nap’ camp, and his eyes were falling the final tiny amount when Bucky spoke.

“You really like purple, huh?”

Clint opened his eyes again to look at his sheets. “Yep,” he agreed. “Got a problem with that?”

Bucky shook his head against Clint’s shoulder. “Nah, just, I’ve never figured out my own favourite colour.”

Clint considered that. “Purple makes me happiest to look at,” he said, smoothing his hand over the sheet. “There was a fortune teller at the circus, she had a tent that was all purple, and was full of drapes and blankets and cushions and shit, soft things. I used to go hide in there for a nap sometimes. I guess purple makes me think about that.”

Bucky was silent for a few minutes, apparently considering that. “Purple makes me think of you,” he said. “I guess that makes me happy. But I like red as well, dark red, and a navy kinda blue.”

“You don’t have to have just one favourite,” Clint said. “Not everyone gets as carried away as I do.”

“Tony has everything gold and red,” said Bucky.

“Right,” agreed Clint. “And Steve’s still in the red, white and blue shit they put him in before he could see what they looked like, and doesn’t seem interested in changing at all.”

“True,” said Bucky. He lifted his head off Clint’s shoulder so he could lean in and kiss him, which Clint was happy enough to accept. “Thanks,” he said, although Clint wasn’t sure what he’d said to prompt it. Bucky hesitated for a moment, then rested his metal hand on Clint’s cheek. “I love you,” he added in voice quiet enough to be only a step away from a whisper.

Clint stared at him, then reached up to take his hand. He took a deep breath and said, “Yeah,” then had to clear his throat to get the next words out, because he’d been holding them in for weeks, hell, maybe even months. “Me too. I love you.”

Bucky’s face lit up with a smile and he leaned in to kiss Clint again and, fuck it, a nap could wait, Clint was going to make out with his boyfriend right now.

****

Bucky came with Clint to the range every day after that, using a different rifle every time until he’d settled on a favourite. He started to join in with the sparring that took place most mornings in the gym, usually with Steve but sometimes he’d go up against Clint or Natasha. When he and Clint fought, though, it usually ended with making out on the sparring mats and then disappearing to Clint's room for an hour or two.

And then one day, after the team limped home from a mission that had technically been a success, Bucky helped Clint to the couch, frowned down at his bruises and the way his ankle wasn’t taking weight quite right just now and then looked up at Steve.

“I want to join the team.”

Steve had a bullet hole in his shoulder that Tony was already tutting at, but he looked over at Bucky with a frown. “You said you were done with fighting.”

Bucky set his chin stubbornly. “I changed my mind. It’s not like the fighting I did before, anyway, it’s about protecting people, right?”

“Is this because Clint got hurt?” asked Natasha. 

Clint rolled his eyes and looked at Bucky, waiting for him to deny that, but Bucky just stared at her with a blank expression, then looked back at Clint’s ankle. “Seems like no one else is watching his back right.”

“Hey!” said Tony. “I caught him both times he decided to jump off a building, fuck you very much.”

“I don’t need protecting,” said Clint, and there were a series of amused snorts from around the room. “Oh, fuck you guys,” he said tiredly, slumping back against the couch. “Bucky, don’t you dare do this just because you’re worried about me. I can take care of myself.”

Bucky dropped into a crouch, putting his hands on Clint’s knees. “I know you can,” he said. “This is something I should be doing anyway. I’ve got all these skills I never wanted, but just because I don’t want them doesn’t mean I shouldn’t use them. I should be helping people like you guys do.”

Clint examined his expression, then sighed. “Okay,” he said, because he could understand that. “But if you ever want to stop-”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m not letting anyone else make my choices any more,” he said. “I’m only ever going to do what I want.”

That was good enough for Clint, and he leaned forward to kiss Bucky then winced when it pulled on at least three bruises.

“Come on,” said Bucky, “let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.” He stood back up and offered his hand to Clint.

Clint waggled his eyebrows. “Are you propositioning me, Mr Barnes?”

Bucky snorted. “I’m trying to take care of you before you keel over.”

Clint sighed but let Bucky take him off to his room, which was rapidly becoming _their_ room, and the next time the Avengers headed out on a mission, the Winter Soldier was with them.

Well, mostly he was with Clint, which Clint would have been irritated by except that he really liked watching Bucky’s smooth efficiency when he fought and the determined power of his stride as he chased down Doombots. As long as he was distracted watching that, he wasn’t thinking about how he’d apparently picked up a babysitter.

“Guys, three just went into Grand Central,” said Tony over the comms. “I’m kinda tied up here, can anyone else go?”

Clint stuck an arrow in the last Doombot facing him and Bucky and glanced around to see Natasha and Steve deep in a fight two blocks away, Sam soaring in overhead to help. “We’re there,” he said, looking at Bucky, who nodded in agreement.

There were screams inside the station as Bucky and Clint entered but it didn’t look like the Doombots were hurting anyone. Instead, they seemed to be mostly causing as much property damage as possible, because apparently Doom was trying to conquer America by driving everyone’s insurance premiums up so high that they’d just give in.

Clint already had an arrow nocked that he sent at a Doombot who was flying towards the ticket machines, exploding it mid-air and causing more screams from the scattered civilians who hadn’t made it out of the main hall yet. 

Bucky raised his gun to aim at another one, but it was already turning towards them. 

“Stand aside for the glory that is Doom!” it announced, and sent out a shot of electricity that sent Clint and Bucky tumbling in opposite directions to get away from it. The Doombot launched itself into the air and aimed itself directly at Clint and he rolled behind a bench, wishing there was more cover available. Most of what there was had been taken over by civilians already, and the last thing he wanted was to lead the Doombot towards them.

The other Doombot had gone for Bucky, flying at him and launching a fist at his head that Bucky ducked just in time, then Clint lost sight of the fight as the first Doombot came for him and he had to concentrate on his own problems.

Doombots were strong and could fly, and their ability to send electricity arcing through the air was annoying as hell, but they weren’t particularly fast. Clint was able to confuse it with some acrobatics and then dash across a few metres of empty space, already nocking another arrow before he spun around and put it straight through the thing’s mask. Sparks flew and it wavered for a second before crashing to the ground.

Clint let out a sigh, then looked around for Bucky. He was driving his metal fist into the chest of the Doombot he’d been fighting, sending metal and electronics flying. He’d got a bit close to where a couple of civilians were hiding and when the doombot collapsed, one of them let out a gasp. Bucky glanced at him, a boy who was crouched behind a bench and froze.

Ah, crap. Clint slung his bow over his shoulder and jogged over, hoping like hell that Bucky wasn’t having a flashback or some kind of delayed reaction to being in combat again.

When he got over to him, Bucky was still staring at the kid with a wide-eyed look that could have meant anything, and the kid was starting to look terrified.

“Hey!” said Clint, slapping his hand to Bucky’s shoulder to jog him out of the moment. “Good going, man.” He grinned down at the kid. “You okay? Are your folks here?”

The kid stared at him, then nodded rapidly, looking around.

“Josh!” called a woman nearby, and he scrambled to his feet and ran towards her.

“Okay, great,” said Clint, looking back at Bucky. He looked like he’d shaken the moment off, so Clint grinned at him. “Another win for Team Good Guys. Let’s go see what the others are up to.”

Bucky gave him a wild-eyed look, then shook his head. “Yeah,” he grunted, then strode off without waiting for Clint.

Okay, so maybe he hadn’t shaken it off as easily as Clint had hoped.

As they took the rest of the Doombots out, Bucky fought with a grim brutality that made Clint think that he hadn’t been as ready to go into combat again as he’d said. He started to feel horrible about dragging him back into this kind of thing, just because he thought Clint needed looking after.

“And that was the last one,” announced Tony as Steve put his shield through the neck of Doombot. “Good going, sweetie.”

“Thanks, darling,” said Steve, throwing a quirked smile towards Tony.

Clint turned to look for Bucky to find him already looking back, with a blank expression that Clint wished he could read because it was pretty fucking clear something was up.

“Hey,” he said, walking over to him as he slung his bow over his shoulder. “Want to skip clean up and go straight back, grab some cocoa before everyone descends on the kitchen?”

It felt like a code to him, one he hoped Bucky could read because Clint was never going to think about having cocoa with Bucky without thinking of all the times they’d let their guards down while sitting together, sharing vulnerabilities with mugs cupped in their hands.

Bucky stared at him for another moment and for a brief fraction of a second his expression broke into something horribly conflicted before it smoothed over again. “Steve will want us to stay,” was all he said, then he turned away and walked over to where Steve was glancing around at the mess they’d made, clearly already coming up with a clean up plan.

Clint stared after Bucky, feeling his heart twinge with something sharp, and hoped like hell that he hadn’t fucked everything up by making Bucky think he needed to do this. He’d have to talk to him about it later, make sure he knew that he didn’t ever have to fight again, not with the Avengers, and not to watch Clint’s back. If he didn’t want to, then he should be able to stay back at the Tower, warm and comfortable in one of his oversized hoodies and a million miles away from violence and fear and all the rest of the crap that came with being an Avenger.

Except Clint didn’t get a chance to. When they got back to the Tower, Clint tried to snag Bucky’s elbow to take him to one side, but Bucky moved out of his grip. “I’m gonna wash up and have an early night,” he said, not meeting Clint’s eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hesitated, then pecked Clint’s lips in a perfunctory manner before striding off towards Steve and Tony’s apartment, to the room he hadn’t slept in for weeks because he spent every night wrapped around Clint.

Clint watched him go, feeling the bottom fall out of his stomach. Oh god, how had this fallen apart on him already? He’d figured he’d had at least a few more months.

“Are you okay?” asked Natasha and he nodded as casually as he could, then disappeared to his own room, to the shower with Bucky’s shampoo in it and the stack of Bucky’s clothes in the bedroom and the bed that felt cold with no one beside him.

****

The next morning, Clint didn’t want to get up. He stared at the ceiling and thought about how much it was going to hurt to lose Bucky and realised that he was even deeper in than he’d thought. This was more than he could ever remember feeling for anyone.

When he did get up, he couldn’t be bothered with a shower, or doing more than throwing his oldest sweatpants and a shirt on and shuffling to the kitchen, hoping that coffee would make things better.

Bucky was in the kitchen and Clint’s heart hurt just to look at him, at the way he’d curled over his mug just like he’d always looked in the middle of the night before Clint had started getting to know him.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound too miserable.

Bucky’s head whipped up and he stared at Clint for a heartbreakingly long time before jumping to his feet. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and rushed over to embrace Clint, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Good morning. Sit down, let me get your coffee.”

He hustled Clint into a chair and bustled over to the coffee machine while Clint just watched, trying to readjust from the whiplash of Bucky’s reaction after his distance last night.

“Here you go, doll," said Bucky, setting a mug down for Clint and then kissing his forehead. “I love you.”

“Okay," said Clint, clutching at the coffee and hoping it would make the world make sense. “I mean, I love you too. I didn’t- Are you okay?”

Bucky nodded, sitting down next to him. “Yeah, peachy keen,” he said. “Just, you know. I guess I needed a bit of alone time to process.” He shrugged his shoulders in a weird twitching spasm. “Sorry.”

Clint shook his head. “No apologies for taking what you need,” he said. “Are you okay though, after yesterday? You know you don’t ever have to fight if you don’t want, I can look after myself just fine, been doing it for years.”

“It wasn’t the fight,” said Bucky, reaching out to take Clint’s hand like he couldn’t help himself. “That was fine. Better than fine, it was nice feeling like I was helping for once.”

“Okay,” said Clint, clutching at Bucky’s hand and trying not to feel like an idiot for how close to tears of relief he was. “Then what was it?”

Bucky hesitated, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Nothing important. Not like you’re important to me, sweetheart.”

Clint blinked at him, and then gave up on trying to understand, because it was early and he needed coffee and apparently his boyfriend still loved him. “Okay,” he said. “Then will you come to the range with me after breakfast?”

“Always,” said Bucky, raising Clint’s hand to press a kiss to it, and Clint couldn’t stop himself from smiling at him, too wide with all the affection filling him up.

Except Bucky’s behaviour still seemed odd that day, just odd in a different way to the night before. Rather than giving Clint the cold shoulder, he went too far in the opposite direction, sticking close to him, pressing kisses to his lips, holding his hand, saying the kinds of things that stalled Clint’s brain because surely no one could really feel like that about him?

Clint had a couple of meetings at the latest version of SHIELD after lunch and Bucky walked him to the headquarters, holding his hand the whole way. He left Clint there, but when Clint came out, Bucky was waiting with a cup from his favourite coffee shop.

He was staring off into the middle-distance and didn’t notice Clint immediately, so Clint paused to just observe him for a moment. There was a frown on his face that didn’t match with the rest of his behaviour and Clint began to get a sick feeling in his stomach that all this lovey-dovey stuff was just overcompensating.

“Hey,” he said, and Bucky glanced around at him, and his face lit up with a smile.

“Hey, darling,” he said, and held the mug out to him.

Clint took it with a smile in return, but the cold worry in his stomach didn’t fade.

“Hey, I want to take you out to dinner tonight,” said Bucky. “Somewhere fancy. Well, fancy for us, I’m not about to drag you to one of Stark’s kinda places. What do you say?”

“Sure,” said Clint. “Sounds great.”

And it was great. Bucky cleaned up real nice, and even brought flowers by for Clint when he came to his room to pick him up. The restaurant was exactly nice enough to feel special, without being the worrying kind of fancy that made Clint feel awkward and out of place. They talked and laughed and Bucky just kept smiling and calling him pet names, touching him whenever he could get away with it.

And yet.

Clint went to the bathroom and when he came back, Bucky was staring out of the window with that same sad frown that cleared away as soon as he realised Clint was back. He was heaping the declarations of affection and pet names on almost too much, some of them coming out with a fervent tone to them that made the cold worry sink further into Clint’s stomach.

“We’re having coffee, right?” Clint asked as their desserts were cleared.

“Of course,” said Bucky. “You think I’d try and make you leave without?”

Clint grinned and flipped over the menu. “Oh, hey, and they have cocoa if you want.”

Bucky’s smile spread wider. “I love you,” he said, apparently unprompted.

Clint set the menu down. “Yeah,” he said. “You know, you’ve said that more times today than I think you have the whole of the rest of the time we’ve been together?”

Bucky looked caught out for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess you’ve just been particularly loveable today, sweetheart,” he said, then glanced away to signal a waiter.

The thing was, it was impossible for Clint to view it all objectively, because every time Bucky said something sweet, or reached out for Clint like he just needed to touch him right then, Clint’s battered old heart melted a bit further, regardless of his concern over how over-the-top Bucky was being. They walked home with their arms around each other and Clint had no qualms about pulling Bucky into his room.

They had slow, tender sex, Bucky breathing words of adoration against Clint’s lips until he thought he’d drown in them, in how much Bucky clearly meant them, even if Clint still didn’t know what was making him say them.

Afterwards, they curled up together and Bucky wrapped himself around Clint, still pressing the occasional kiss to his skin. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said.

Clint thought back over Bucky’s life and privately decided that wasn’t a very high bar, but he raised his head to kiss him in return. “I love you,” he said, and hoped that tomorrow, whatever was going on with Bucky would have settled.

A couple of hours later, he woke up to find the other side of the bed empty and cold. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the dark ceiling. “JARVIS, did Bucky go back to his room?”

“Sergeant Barnes is currently in the communal living room,” said JARVIS.

Clint sighed and sat up, reaching for some sweatpants.

Bucky was staring out at the night sky, hunched on the sofa with his arms wrapped around his chest and that lost look back on his face. He hadn’t bothered turning the lights on, so Clint paused in the shadows and just watched him for a moment before heading over to sit next to him.

Bucky turned to look at him and Clint reached for one of his hands.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” he asked softly, trying not to puncture the mood.

Bucky let out a sigh, looking down at their joined hands. “It’s nothing.”

Clint snorted. “Yeah, I’m not buying that. You think I can’t tell when you’re pretending you’re not freaking out? C’mon, you know you can tell me whatever you need to.” He paused and took a careful breath, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “Do you need us to slow down for a bit? I get if this is a lot for you right now, we can-”

“No,” interrupted Bucky. “God, no, that’s the opposite of what I want. That’s-” He let out a huff of air. “That’s kinda the problem. Or, no. Not the problem, just-”

He broke off again and scowled, looking away out of the window. Clint waited him out, ignoring the anxiety creeping across his skin because Bucky had always been pretty open, if he wanted to break up or cool things off he’d just say. It couldn’t be that. It wouldn’t be.

Bucky looked back at Clint with wide, sad eyes and Clint braced himself.

“I remembered my soulmate,” said Bucky.

Clint felt his eyes widen because he hadn’t even stopped to consider that. “Oh shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, no it’s not- He wasn’t a mission. He’s still alive. Or, well, probably. I just, I _remember_ meeting him, being the Winter Soldier and not really understanding, and then leaving him behind. And I feel shit about it, because that was a dick move, but I don’t want to go chasing after him. Clint, I know I’ve been laying it on thick today, but it’s all been true. I love you, and I want to be with you. You’re all I want, not some strange soulmate I don’t even know how to look for. This, what we have? It feels like more than that. It’s more than enough for me.”

He still sounded as if he were trying to convince someone, but Clint could kinda understand why now. The whole world was geared towards telling you that your soulmate was the only one for you, and any other relationship was never going to come close to it. Clint had spent his life ignoring it all, telling himself that he didn’t need anyone and that it was fine that his relationships were all casual. He didn’t want casual with Bucky, though, and he didn’t want to believe that whatever he might have had with a strange guy he saw once in a train station would be better.

“I get it,” he said. “Me too. If I could find my soulmate, I wouldn’t bother. I’d just stay here with you.”

But he’d probably spend a day or two trying to adjust to the idea of going against everything society had told him his whole life. Like Bucky had.

Bucky smiled and tugged on Clint’s hand, pulling him into his arms. “Yeah,” he said, pressing his face into Clint’s neck. “That’s it exactly. Fuck that guy, I’ve got everything I want right here.”

Clint pulled away just enough to kiss him and they lost themselves in making out until Bucky dragged Clint back to bed.

****

It was nearly two months later before they talked about Bucky’s soulmate again. Thor had swung by on his way to some other intergalactic mess that needed cleaning up by the God of Thunder and he’d brought with him an intergalactic super-powered Air Force lady who was now staring at Natasha with a blitzed look, because the moment they’d shaken hands, colours had burst into life for both of them.

Tony had immediately insisted on having a party.

Clint and Bucky were on a sofa together, hands linked because however much they both knew that they didn’t want anyone but each other, it still kinda hurt to see other people find their soulmates and make it look so easy.

Tony was giving a speech, of course. “...have an early night, because, let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like banging your soulmate, am I right Steve?”

Steve sighed and rubbed a hand over his face without responding.

“See?” said Tony. “He’s overwhelmed just thinking about it. But seriously, congrats you guys, it’s awesome, you’re gonna love it, and not just the sex, the whole thing is pretty incredible, can definitely recommend.”

Clint pressed his shoulder tighter against Bucky’s, wondering if Tony ever paid attention to what was coming out of his mouth. Probably not. “Okay, Stark, thanks for the spiel from the soulmate propaganda squad.”

Tony turned towards him, his eyes flicking back between him and Bucky, and he winced. “Ah, sorry guys, no offence.”

“And yet,” said Bucky, “I kinda feel offended. What do you think, Clint?”

Clint shrugged. “I’m thinking that having sex any better than our epic fuck last night would probably kill me, so maybe it’s a good thing I’m not gonna meet my soulmate.”

“Yeah, same,” agreed Bucky. “Ain’t no way my soulmate could be as flexible as you are, doll.”

He leaned in to kiss Clint, and Clint let the touch of his lips carry away any lingering discontent that this party had dragged up. Natasha had someone now, and that was good, but what was better was that Clint could now sit her down and show her his three favourite shades of purple so she could see exactly why it was better than any other colour out there.

When they pulled apart, Steve was giving Bucky one of his sad, ‘aw my best friend has a tragic past’ looks. “Bucky,” he said softly. “It’s okay to be sad about it.”

Bucky stared at him and Clint could tell the exact moment that he realised Steve still thought Bucky had probably murdered his soulmate, because it was just a fraction of a second before Clint did.

“Oh, no, Stevie,” Bucky said. “It’s fine. I remembered, and the guy’s alive. Well, probably alive, but I didn’t kill him, or hurt him even. I wasn’t even on a mission.”

“What?” said Steve. “Bucky, why didn’t you say?”

Bucky just shrugged. “I was distracted,” he said, squeezing Clint’s hand.

“Don’t you want to try and find him?” asked Tony. “I mean, obviously Legolas is great, but-”

“But nothing,” interrupted Bucky. “Clint is great. I don’t need anyone else. Anyway, I don’t know that I’d even know where to start looking, I didn’t get his name or anything.”

Natasha and Carol had drifted off together to the window where they were talking softly, ignoring the rest of them. Clint felt kinda jealous as everyone else’s attention centred on him and Bucky.

“I didn’t think Hydra let you out unless you were on a mission,” said Sam. “God, it wasn’t one of them, was it?”

Bucky shook his head. “Hell no. You think my soulmate would work for the organisation that fucked me up? Nah, it was just some civilian kid.”

He stopped there, but everyone was still staring at him, no matter how Clint tried to glare them into fucking off and leaving this alone. 

“Go on,” said Tony. “C’mon, dish the dirt.”

Bucky sent him a very flat look, but he did carry on. “There was a lotta infighting in Hydra in the late 80s,” he said. “That was when the US branch took me off the Russians, but they kept looking for me, wanting me back. The Americans took to moving me undercover between bases, while I was awake rather than in the cryotube.” He shrugged. “I guess a giant freezer that needs to be kept powered the whole time is pretty hard to hide when you’re crossing the country. There was one particular time they were dragging me from Canada to...somewhere. St Louis? I can’t remember now, but they decided to take me by train. Gave me a civilian outfit and a couple of handlers, and just let us loose on the rail network.” 

Clint could feel his lungs constricting. No way. There was no way.

“We stopped at some big station to change trains,” carried on Bucky, apparently not realising that he was making Clint’s whole mind freeze. “Chicago, maybe. Somewhere like that. They went to get our tickets and left me alone, and then-”

“Some kid tried to steal your bag,” said Clint, breathlessly. 

Bucky turned to him with a frown. “How did you know that?”

It felt like all the air had gone out of the room. “That was me,” said Clint, distantly, staring at Bucky’s light blue eyes. His soulmate’s eyes. “Holy shit, Bucky. You’re my soulmate.”

“Oh, no fucking way,” said Tony. “How the fuck did you guys not realise that earlier?”

They both ignored him. Bucky put his hand on Clint’s cheek and leaned in. “That was you?” he asked in a soft whisper.

Clint nodded. “You grabbed my wrist and then you just….you just walked away.”

Bucky was still staring as if he’d never seen anything like Clint before. “My handlers came back,” he said. “I didn’t know much back then, they had my brain pretty well scrambled, but I knew that if they knew you’d made me see colours, they’d take you along with us, and do awful things to you, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

He was probably right, god only knew what Hydra would have done with their pet assassin’s soulmate, but Clint didn’t want to think about that right now. 

“Bucky,” he breathed, then leaned in and kissed him. God, no wonder this had always felt so right, so perfect. They’d always been meant for each other.


End file.
